


milkshake, milkshake (i love to feel you sweat)

by oncewewerezombies



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Biting, Bulges and Nooks, Date Rape, Dreambubbles, Fingerfucking, Guilt, Hair-pulling, Humiliation, Hurt No Comfort, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Power Imbalance, Rape Fantasy, Self-Hatred, Slut Shaming, Sweat, Xeno, kinks gone wrong, no means yes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 22:14:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7592302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freezing behaviour or the Freeze Response is a reaction to specific stimuli, most commonly observed in prey animals. When a prey animal has been caught and completely overcome by the predator, it may still be possible for the prey to escape by feigning death so that the predator stops the attack...Freezing behaviour is most easily characterized by changes in blood pressure and lengths of time in crouching position, but it also is known to cause changes such as shortness of breath, increased heart rate, sweating, or choking sensation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	milkshake, milkshake (i love to feel you sweat)

You don't know how you ended up here, exactly, and you are so terribly, _vastly_ uncomfortable with it, but now you're here. You don't know how to say stop either. You choke a little, you tense as his cooler hands touch your skin, you're pretty sure that every time one of his sickening pet names (doll, baby, kitten and worst of all _sweetheart_ ) falls from his curving mouth that you wince visibly, but you can't. How can you make him _stop_? Oh, everyone would think that it would be so easy for you, Equius Zahhak. But if you shove him too hard, or even just a little too much, you might break a bone or really hurt him and no one understands what that is like for you, how much you dislike being reminded of how brutish you can be if you're not exquisitely cautious of every movement of your body. Of exactly how much space you take up, of how you are so careful to exist peacefully within what you consider your allotted space, how you painstakingly (wearyingly) co-operate within that space to be alongside other trolls without hurting them, bruising them, breaking them.

You should just be able to say stop.

You don't.

You can't.

Every time you've tried, he's found a way to turn it back on you, to somehow act like he's coaxing you along, like your reluctance is merely show. Play. As though he can't conceive of anything other than your immediate, enthusiastic consent to whatever he has planned. That your protests, your stuttered efforts to make him _stop touching you_ are just some sort of youthful virginal shyness and in all honesty you really want this, you want his hands on your body and his mouth on your throat just like this. You're backed into a corner of the couch frozen like you don't know what to do with yourself and your hands hovering because you don't know where to put them without punching him through a gosh darn wall and he's managed to slide one of his knees up between your thighs while his hands play with your hair, stroking your skin, mouth biting at your ear - you - you don't want this, _you don't want this_.

All you'd wanted to do was watch a movie. He'd said he had something that he thought you would enjoy, he'd complimented your intelligence and catered to your interests. Hadn't seemed to be put off by the ceaseless sweat. And you admit it, you'd been somewhat flattered by the older Ampora's seemingly unflagging pursuit of your company. There are very few people who actually seek you out, besides your moirail (and after the...what had happened, you are uncomfortable with each other in a way that tears you inside even if you don't know how to show it. You don't know how to make it stop, how to _soothe her_ , or allow her to soothe you). And well, hoofbeasts - a new movie on the noble-spirited animals wasn't something you found easy to pass by, even if it was apparently a human movie. Especially an animated one. You hadn't even gotten to watch the movie for more than ten minutes before he was putting moves on you that you had no idea how to deal with. People don't _do_ this to you. They don't touch you. They don't do this. 

You're a troll of easily found buttons, it seems, and as his hand fists in your hair and you groan as he pulls, you splay your hand against his chest to somehow _gently_ push him back a little and try to restrain the urge to just send him flying. Into a wall. You'd probably punch through his chest. You can't. Must not. That is not. It would not be proper behaviour, it is _not seemly_ , he is a higher blood than you, even if you detest seadwellers as a matter of course. And now, in the very explicit particular considering the example in front of you (on top of you no no no please). You hear the sound of the armrest crack behind your spine as you push back again into it to try and find more space to disappear into, you thought only inestimably but. It seems you were. Wrong. Fiddlesticks, you don't dare move back anymore in case you really break it - that would be uncouth. _His hand is moving up your thigh_. 

You're frozen; you don't know what to do. 

"Wait -"

Ah, that's you, that's your voice. It sounds weak. Nothing like your usually strong declarations, somehow gasping over the end of the word. But you tried - you said wait - he's not - he's not stopping, no, his hand is just. It just keeps moving. His fins are flared, violet to the edges and Cronus' eyes are somehow glowing, even if they're as dead white as yours. He grins, and his teeth look so sharp, you almost instinctively cower. He doesn't take it that way. 

"C'mon, babe, you're going to like it, I swear...look at you now, mmm, you know, you sounded good just then. You like getting your hair pulled that much, huh?" He _does it again_ , watching you with something like scientific curiosity, something detached as you can't help the way your mouth drops open when he tightens the grip on your mane and pulls. The tension pulses down your spine, landing in your lap and you've never. You don't. He presses his knee up against the crotch of your shorts and rubs, you get your hand on his shoulder and he acts like you were reaching up to pull him in, swooping down for a kiss and muffling your next sound of protest with his mouth. His tongue presses between your parted lips, swiping across the surfaces of your broken fangs, and then he pulls back. _Takes off your shades_ and puts them on the table near the couch with a negligent little clatter as they land, a flick of his wrist. You hope they don't crack any further. "There. That was just getting in the way...and now I can see your beautiful eyes. You know you're really something, chief, something special."

"Ampora -"

"Cronus, c'mon. You can use my first name. Unless maybe that ain't vwhat does it for you, huh, gorgeous? Don't vworry - I ain't the kind to judge vwhat gets you off." 

He covers your mouth with his again and you make a pained sound as his hand finds the front of your shorts and pulls the zipper down, cool fingers settling against the front of your boxers, feeling out the slit and moving in further. Stroking the front of your sheath as he pulls at your hair and tries to shove his tongue down your throat. All you can do is breathe through your nose and try not to bite down as his hand cups and strokes your bulgesheath. You don't - this is nothing you have ever - you had _fantasies_ about being put in your place. Fantasies. About being underneath someone cooler, higher than you and used for their pleasure. They hadn't been like this, they hadn't covered the sickening swoop in your stomach as cold fingers stroke at your sheath and then below to your nook until you squeak, a sound you'd deny you ever made to any other soul. They didn't include the terrible taste in your mouth that his tongue's transferred, something bitter and acrid with a cringing aftertaste of dirty saltwater that dries you out until you're choking.

"Maybe it's sir, hmm? Am I on the right track here? Or maybe even master. You like that, huh, _pet_?"

It's not like he's entirely wrong. The lurch in your stomach makes you speechless for long enough as he grins at you, for him to pull away and get his shirt off. His fingers come out of your shorts streaked with dark blue and you flush, miserably. Everything below the waistband of your shorts is a mess of sensation, your nook is slick and you can feel it, your bulge is curling out of its sheath and you've turned the cushion wedged in uncomfortably at the small of your back into a sodden mess. You can't stop sweating. You can't stop _anything_ , including him.

"I hit a nerwve, I think. Didn't I, kitten?" He cups your chin and makes you look at him as you can feel something hot racing along your spine, centreing in your stomach. You are trying very hard not to gasp too hard, too obviously. You don't want to seem affected. You don't want to _be_ affected. Your eyes slide away and you can feel something in the back of them prickle, you don't want this. He kisses you long and slow as you keep your mouth slack, and you can feel him tugging at your shorts until he gets them off over your socks. Your resistance is passive, you don't know how to actively push back. Not without causing damage and you are paralysed with indecision over it. It would be easy, if you could make yourself do it. You don't - you don't enjoy hurting people and you are sure that normally you'd feel some sort of anger, your rage issues are not something you're proud of but you do have them but all you feel is a cringing horror that leaves you breathless and. 

And weak.

No one would believe you would let this happen to you. You're Equius Zahhak. You're STRONG, more than STRONG enough to keep this from happening. You can't, you can't, _you can't._ If you're letting this happen in some way you must want it. You could stop this. You're sure you could stop this, if you could just find the words. If you knew the right words, you could make him stop, you could find a way to remove him from your body and escape this. Words have never been one of your strengths. You have before wished so much for that to be an untruth.

"Or you knovw, lovwblood?" A shiver wracks you and you utter a soft and plaintive mewl of distaste as his cold fingers press deep into your nook, heel of his hand rubbing up against the base of your bulge. For your age and in comparison with your peer group, you're large, well developed and oh yes, STRONG. You still can't bring yourself to push him off as he kisses your neck, fingers your nook like he has a right to, you've never - you've never felt anything in there beside your own delicately cautious explorations and _he's so cold_. At least, you think to yourself with a quiet dawning horror that this is going to happen (this is happening, it's going on right now) he doesn't wear rings on his fingers like the Ampora of your own session. Your bulge tries to wrap around his wrist, stupid instinctive thing that it is without the higher functions and critical analysis that are currently going into meltdown inside your head and you can't stop the shocked sound as his fingers curl inside your nook, pressing against sensitive spots inside you. This is like nothing you've ever felt - the cold is. Bizarrely sensitizing. It feels good in one, purely physical sense, and in every other. In every other, you want to tear yourself apart to get rid of it from inside you. "Yeah, I think I just found vwhat really rewvs your motor, huh, Zahhak? Gonna be a good boy for me, right, I knovw you are, just gotta let me get you to open up a little and then vwe'll really have some fun. Mmm, you feel so tight in here, it's amazin', you're fucking _perfect_..."

Your mouth hangs open and you're panting, you keep choking on your own viscous spit (you want to vomit) and all those words that you want to say and that aren't coming out. Or not coming out right. Like no. And stop. And leave me alone. And don't touch me, don't touch me, don't _touch me_.

He keeps talking over you, saying how he knows you want it as his fingers push inside you, thick and painful as his chipped nails catch on the inside of your nook. All of your hair is slick with sweat and every word that you could say is a ball of thorns in your throat as you just. Let this happen. Go limp and let him touch you, play with your nook and stroke your bulge, sharp triangular seadweller fangs leaving little bruises and indents in your shoulder, your throat as you tremble under him. Every mark is going to have to be something that you see for nights, until you manage to 'remember' yourself whole. And your throat is so exquisitely sensitive, you can't help panting as he sucks and bites, you can feel your nook slickening under his fingers. You can _hear_ it, which is almost worse. You don't want to belong to your body any more, which is an odd thing for you. Sometimes it does things that are out of your control, and you can occasionally be uncomfortable in your own skin but. You've never wanted to leave it behind before, not like this. Just put it down and walk away and let Cronus do what he wants to do, and then come back. If there's anything left after this.

Cold hands on your thighs spread them apart, you're still wearing your socks and you are going to have to do something about burning every article of clothing you have on you at this moment. That you wore to his hive. Not a single reminder of this will you keep, somehow you will find a way to burn. Everything. Even if you can't, even if it's not possible, somehow you will find a way to do it - you will experiment until you find the way to destroy memories in these dreambubbles. You tilt your head back and look at the ceiling, so at least you don't have to see what the stuttering sound of his zipper going down means. You don't want to see it. You haven't done this before and you never, you _never_ thought it would happen like this. The most you've shared was a few kisses with Aradiabot and then some more with several later in the dreambubbles. It never went further than kissing. That's all you've done and you _never thought it would be like this._ It's not that it had gone much beyond wishful thinking, but you. You'd had thoughts. Plans. You'd wanted to be truly flush or pitch for the first troll you did this with and the most you feel for this older seadweller moving on top of you (he's so cold) is a panicked distaste, solidifying rapidly into an utterly platonic loathing. Why wouldn't he listen? Your breathing is staticky and panicked, and you feel the first press of his body coming down on you, pushing you further back into the couch. The pillow at the small of your back makes a wet sound as it's compressed further, more weight coming down on it, and you don't know how he can bear to touch you, you're sweating.

Everywhere. 

Skin slick with rank blue moisture, you can smell your own fear - why can't he? Are Beforans so foolish (so sheltered) that they don't know what fear smells like or is he deluding himself that it's nothing, just nervousness about performance because fear isn't the only scent on your body. It's not as though your body isn't reacting in what should be a proper and welcoming way, bulge unsheathed, nook wet and open and you smell like. Fudge, you don't even want to think about it. A side effect of the sweating seemed to be an increased amount of pheromones and you - hhhkkkk - oh, what you must smell like over the fear. Shameful. Like you want this. He'd stop if you didn't. Wouldn't he? He'd realise that you weren't willing to have this happen to you? Not that he had, even when you were saying no as directly as you could manage to someone of his blood type, he'd just. Kept going. And now you were here.

You tense into a fearful boulder as you feel something cool and wet stroking over the entrance to your nook, and you swallow back a whine, breath leaving you in an explosive huff as Cronus rests his weight on his hands, on your hips as he mouths at your throat and the cool questing tip strokes. Slips. _Enters_. Your breathing stutters over a denial and your hands shake, you can't move them. You lie back and let it happen, the slow questing entry of his bulge, thick and deep and cold into you, pressing at places his fingers couldn't reach, making you _stretch_ inside to take him. At least, you think to yourself in glib panic ridden hysteria as he pushes deeper into you, he was taking it slowly. Acting like you _want_ this as he murmurs at you, soothing words of praise and you. You hate to admit, it makes you relax to hear those compliments in his noble accent. That saltdrenched warble. Maybe he will finish quickly? Then this will be over with, and you can leave. You can escape. 

To never _ever_ think of this again in your entire after death existence, however long that lasts.

He starts to move. His hips press up against your thighs and you can feel his bulge curling deep inside you, in every place that has never been touched before and you. You lie there, you let him, you can't move, he makes a grumble of discontent at the way you're just lying there, and starts to pail you harder. You're frightened to touch him in case you press too hard, or even move your hips. Not that you want to. The burning ache of your nook has your bulge starting to re-sheathe, there's tears at the corners of your eyes that you're trying to pretend aren't there as you intently study the ceiling in the parts you can see around his hair and horns. How had he remembered that crack in his ceiling in such detail? You focus on it, and try to breathe, try to let this wash over you, through you. It will be over soon, please, let it be over soon, you don't know how much longer you can _take_ this. He moves over you, inside you, his breathing heavy against your skin as he humps ( _ruts_ , like an _animal_ ) into you, muttering into your ear about how much pleasure he's going to give you, how much you will enjoy yourself, how good a lover he is, and then he reaches down between you both to stroke your bulge; it sends a surge of pleasure along your spine, making your body spark.

_No, no, no!_

You don't want to enjoy any part of this, but you can't help yourself. You died young and your body is very eager to take any kind of pleasure that it can find in this situation. He's leaking highblood arousal pheromones and your body is reacting to that, like it should, like is proper - it's only your mind that can't (won't) submit to the bridle. You're a failure as a blueblood; you should be pleased to serve. Even like this. You should be enjoying this. 

A choked gasp escapes your mouth and he chuckles a little, stroking you from base to tip as his ridged, thick bulge moves inside your nook in questing writhing motions. Coiling in you, pressing against every part of you as he rubs the tip of your bulge with his calloused thumb. Your body jerks, without your permission, rising up into the touches with another squelch of prematerial as his bulge sweeps through your deepest parts. "There vwe go, a little fucking life in ya. Feels good, huh, pet? You like my bulge in you, filling up up with all that sweet violet curl? Ffffuck." His voice is self-satisfied and loathsome and your stomach clenches as he purrs away in your ear as you gasp and try to stop yourself from gagging too obviously. Oh, you just want this to be over. Any sound you make, he takes as encouragement. How can he be so, so, so _deluded?_ "Mmm, god, you're tight as fuck in here, bet you newver let anybody in this tight lil' nook before, huh? Keeping it, _mmmm_ , for your betters, am I right?" He laughs, and it's acid down your spine as he moves quicker, harder. It hurts.

If he's doing that then he's going to be finished soon, you must be interpreting the situation correctly. And he'll get off you and get a bucket and then you can just. You can leave. You should shower, but you want to get out of here more than you've ever wanted to leave somewhere in all your life or death, and you _need this to be finished_. Let him just. Get close, and get the bucket, and then. Then you can go. It can't take too long. He must be close, almost at that point. He's moaning in your ear and you twist your gaze down to look at him as you pant, trying to bite back every little moan as he pails you, his bulge moving inside your nook with wet sounds that makes you want to claw your ears from the side of your head. Remove them. Leave this body. Not to be feeling this, hearing this, have to _experience_ this any more. Oh, why doesn't he just...finish? He knocks the breath from you as he thrusts and it suddenly hits you as he groans with a rising wave of satisfaction above you that he isn't going to get a bucket.

That _you_ are the bucket.

You stiffen all over with horror at the dawning realisation and it _almost_ gives you the impetus to push him off you and send him flying across the room, but it's too late, he's spilling inside your nook with a deep satisfied sigh. A tight keening noise, thin and drawn, escapes your throat as you're polluted in every part of you. All the way inside, your body doing what it was so naturally built to do when life was what mattered. Swelling, _burning_ you with cold. He won't leave you alone even if he's spent and sated, even now, he strokes your bulge and nips at an ear. He _makes_ you spill, whispering in your ear of how good you are, so good, such a good boy, so _well behaved_ , and you cringe even as wretched pleasure you don't even _want_ sweeps through your body. Ugly clench in your gut as something base and ignoble responds to those whispered words of how good you are, _revels_ in someone higher than you wanting you, appreciating you. Needing you. Wants to fawn on him, thank him for using you in this way. What is _wrong_ with you, this hurts, _it hurts_ , you're full to aching with his slurry and your nook is tingling in odd, stretching twinges as he pulls out of you. 

You didn't want this. 

That is a lie and you know it - you wanted this, you're a fool, you've always been a fool, if you didn't want this, you would have pushed him off. It is not as though your strength is insubstantial, you could have made him stop. You didn't do anything of the sort; you barely uttered a negating word. _This is your own fault_. He can't be blamed from thinking that you desired him, this, all of this. Every part.

From the inside out, you're frozen. You can feel his slurry inside your belly, and it burns. It's so cold. So cold. You ache with it, your thighs are cramping and everything below your belt is nothing you want to acknowledge. It is none of you.

When it's done, you're still feel paralysed and you want nothing more than to hide but somehow you find the ability inside yourself to move, to stand. Your body is distanced from your self, you watch it move as though it is one of your robots. So precise, methodical in each and every movement. Now he's off you, he's pleased and smug, smiling. You want to punch his face in, your hands shake as you pick up your clothes and he kisses at your throat. Touches you like he has a right. The same way he's touched you since he yawned and draped his arm across the back of the couch, and settled it on your shoulders. Until it led up to - until he'd -

You flinch away and his smile never wavers. 

He makes a comment about how he's going to have to replace the couch, and there's a numb buzzing in your head. You don't know what to say to that, so you just stare dumbly at him instead, and try to inch your shorts from where he threw them on the ground closer to you with an edge of your foot. Somehow you manage to get out of his hive with your shorts on and shirt clutched to your chest, not able to respond. All of your insides are ice. You abscond as rapidly as you possibly can, faster than you've ever retreated from any situation before. This can't. You can't do this again, and his parting remark had been very positive, quite upbeat. Your retreat is a shambles, you can't remember what you said, but you're sure that he didn't take it as a rebuff. You're also very sure that he didn't think he'd done anything wrong, that anything that had just occurred was untoward. 

Simply put, you're just going to make sure you're never alone again. Somehow. Just in case. You hope he won't make some kind of stance as though you have (oh please no) done something permanent, created some sort of _relationship_. You don't quite know how you would be able to deal with that; you've proven so manifestly unable to deal with anything that's happened in the last hour. Was that how long it had taken? It had seemed like it had taken forever.

You need to shower.

_You need to shower **immediately**_.

**Author's Note:**

> This was not the fluff I meant to write.


End file.
